Inappropriate
by Kate Andrews
Summary: After the events of The Confession, Sydney needs to be sure of something.
1. Thoughts

Title: Inappropriate (1/5)  
Author: Kate Andrews   
E-Mail: idontwannawait@hotmail.com  
Rating: PG-13 for strong language and a little strong imagery later on.  
Summary: After the events of "The Confession", Sydney needs to be sure of something.  
Spoilers: Up through "The Confession," with a tiny, AU bit of "The Box" (becomes clearer later)  
Disclaimer: Don't own them, can't buy them, but I won't break 'em, I promise. I'll put them back where I found them.  
Authors Note: Thanks to my betas, especially Bella, who made me think about more than a few things. And this is my first Alias fic, so please be kind.  
  
_________________________________  
  
Inappropriate (1/5)  
by Kate Andrews  
  
  
  
The first raindrops hit Sydney's cheek right before she reached the van.   
  
At dusk, she had left her house to find the whole sky pregnant with rain. Half an hour later, as she strode towards her meeting with her handler, the air crackled with energy. The empty lot behind the boarded up Dairy Queen sparkled. There were broken bottles mixed with the the gravel and knee high, wheat-colored weeds. It created a jagged, rustling, crunching carpet.   
  
She could feel the rain coming, but she didn't run. She wanted to cross the field with a sprint, slap her palms against the side like a child playing tag. She wanted to be in there already. She wanted this conversation to be over with.  
  
She wanted not to need to have this conversation at all.  
  
She listened to the rumbling in the distance, to the growing rush of wind through trees. A cold breeze to cut this sticky heat, that would be nice.  
  
Then it came, the chill air flipping the leaves on their backs. "When they turn silver," her mother used to say, "When you see their bellies, they're telling you a storm is coming."  
  
The rain hit, and still she waited in back of the van for a few moments, enjoying that metallic, stony scent of rain on hot pavement.   
  
"You're early," Vaughn said when she pulled open the doors.  
  
"And you're," she took a step back. "You're naked."   
  
He wasn't, really. He just was topless, and buttoning his khakis. A grey t-shirt lay balled in the back corner of the van, near a small lamp. A dark green sweater sat on the chair behind him and next to him, there were two worn running shoes.   
  
The plane of his stomach was marred only by a deep, jagged scar. It started at his navel and slashed across to his waist. A soft clank pulled her gaze to his unbuckled belt, but she quickly reestablished eye contact. In her shock, she couldn't decide if he was embarrassed, amused, angry, or all three.  
  
Even without shock she had difficulty reading him. Though, on the plus side, she had an answer to the boxers or briefs question.   
  
Sydney didn't blush. That wasn't something that she did, but she could feel heat rising in her cheeks despite the rain. Vaughn's body was unexpected, both the fact that she was seeing it and for what she saw. He was hard with muscle. Not the type one gets in a gym after sets and reps, but the type earned from hard, regular use. Not chisled, but defined. And covered with a light mat of hair, more than she usually liked. Goosebumps prickled up her arms.   
  
"I wasn't expecting your call," he said finally, breaking their gaze. He didn't offer to help her in.  
  
As he turned away from her to pull on a fresh white t-shirt, she noticed that his scar continued its arc across his back and finished just short of his spine. It was fully healed, but still had the tender, purple-red color of a recent wound. There were freckles and patches of peeling, sunburnt skin sprinkled across his shoulders. Surfing, maybe? Freak shark attack? She smiled at the thought of Vaughn in baggy, Hawaiian print board shorts.  
  
He buckled his belt then reached for his sweater. Barely looking at her, he beckoned. "Get in here, you're getting wet."   
  
He was right. A neatly folded towel sat on his duffel bag. It wasn't until she'd dried her hair and started wiping the rain from her face that she smelled it. The white terrycloth was already damp with his fresh sweat. Hastily, she refolded it.  
  
"I was out running when you contacted me." he said. "I didn't have much time." The inside of the van was stripped, except for the two folding chairs and industrial carpet remnants scattered over the floor. Although there was nearly enough room to stand, she crouched, sitting on her heels instead of half-bending over.  
  
"No, I apologize." Was he avoiding looking at her? Or was he just getting dressed. Was he uncomfortable, and if so, why? She was perversely happy to have her thoughts spinning about someone other than herself or her mother. "I should have knocked."  
  
The rain was coming down in sheets now. It drummed against the roof, punctuated by the occasional cymbal crash and rolling bass of thunder.   
  
"Hand me my shoes?"   
  
"You didn't have to come. I should have waited for the next..." her voice trailed off as she unknotted his laces. "Here." She tossed them one at a time.  
  
His smile was lopsided. "Thank you. But if you need to talk," he sank to the floor and tugged on the well-shined, leather shoes. "If you need me, you call. I come. I call, you come. You know that. That's our job."   
  
"Our job," she echoed. Our life. Only he never called her, he called Joey's Pizza. Abruptly, she said, "Tell me, how many lies do you think you tell a day?"  
  
"To who?"  
  
"Total."  
  
"Do white lies count?" He sat with his legs bent, feet flat against the scraps of carpet. Hands on knees, he waited for her response.   
  
"No."  
  
"And what about lying to myself?"  
  
"You're in a weird mood."   
  
"Forget it. Tell me what this is about."  
  
She realized with a start that she wasn't sure. Yesterday, her world had turned inside out. Again. It tended to do that every month or so. She should be getting used to it.   
  
But that meeting, the revelation about her mother, her father's horrible words, all of it had squeezed her carefully hardened mental defenses. She felt like a blister inside her mind had popped, oozing guilt, shame, and violation. And even then, even then she thought that maybe she could handle it. Of course, that was the shock talking. She knew it, but she didn't care. Whatever worked.  
  
Then she turned and saw the look on Vaughn's face. Something else inside of her tore, something she hadn't known was there. He wouldn't even look at her. She felt pink and raw and everything, everything stung.   
  
She didn't even try to speak to him after the meeting. And last night had been a numb blur, helped along by four glasses of wine. Then, today, a nutcase who looked vaguely like some director had tried to take over SD-6. Marshall, of all people, managed to stop it almost before it started with something that that looked like a graphing Texas Instruments calculator.   
  
Of course it wasn't a calculator. But she hadn't been listening to his eager explanation. Most of the staff, including herself, had been let off early to let a cleanup crew sweep for bugs and bombs.   
  
And so she went home. She did real life things. Scrubbed the shower, tossed the furry stuff in the fridge, rubbed Icy-Hot into her abused muscles.   
  
But there had just come a point this afternoon when she was putting away her groceries that she felt like crying. And she couldn't tell anyone around her why. She counted the reasons her mother must have loved her (four) and almost had herself convinced that she wasn't a prop. Later, on the news she saw footage of policeman's funeral with a little boy saluting. Then, that god damned Post Office commercial with the Carly Simon song came on and she just started bawling.   
  
On the phone, Francie wanted to know what was wrong. PMS, Sydney had said, then she made a mental note not to complain this month when her period actually did come.   
  
That's when she made the decision.   
  
The whole world might lie to her. And she might have to lie to her friends. But if she was going to stay sane, she had to trust herself and her emotions. And trust started honesty. And these days, the potential for complete honesty began and ended with the man currently sitting in front of her and avoiding her gaze.  
  
So, she found herself calling his private line, offering him a coded request for a rendezvous. She tried to let him know it wasn't urgent, but really, how could she when the request itself was a code. A lie.   
  
Then she'd thought better of it, only it was too late. And she finally told herself some of the truth, that she only wanted to be near someone who she didn't have to lie to. Someone who she needed so badly to trust, even after he secretly taped her. She acknowledged how screwed up it was, but the only thing she could make ok right now was this thing with him.   
  
She needed to know where they were. She needed the truth from him.  
  
"Lying to yourself definitely counts," she said.  
  
He flinched. It was almost imperceptible, but almost was good enough for someone trained at perceiving.   
  
He said, "It shouldn't."  
  
Still, he didn't look at her, so she picked at her chipping nail polish, a remnant from a recent trip. She couldn't think of a response, and she realized she didn't mind. She just wished they could share silence somewhere with upholstry, central heating, and maybe some windows that weren't boarded up. And she wished she had a better idea of what was going on inside of his head. Hate, indifference, contempt, sympathy, his own private brand of pain?   
  
Yesterday in that conference room she'd given up the twisted sprout of hope that he might feel something more than a handler feels for an agent. Now, she just wanted to make sure he didn't hate her. Or at the very least, that he could be trusted.  
  
"They made me see a shrink," he said, finally.  
  
"About what?"  
  
"Guess."  
  
She looked up to catch him staring at her. Involuntarily, her gaze jumped to his waist. To that scar and his tight stomach and his body. She kept thinking about it.  
  
"I'm sorry. How was he?"  
  
"She was--," the end of his sentence was drowned out by thunder.  
  
"I didn't hear that."  
  
"You are all the way across the van."   
  
"That's true." Neither of them moved. She didn't think she could bear it if she moved towards him and he moved away. This was silly, though. They were professionals. "How was the shrink?"   
  
"What?" But his voice was nearly drowned out by a new wave of water on metal.   
  
She glanced at the ceiling. "What is this, monsoon season?"   
  
He turned his head away quickly when she caught him looking at her again. She tried staring, challenging, waiting.   
  
"She was what I expected."  
  
"Which was?"   
  
"The usual."  
  
"What's the usual?" She refused to take her eyes off his face.  
  
*****  
  
Part 2 coming soon. Reviews/feedback appreciated. 


	2. Feelings

Inappropriate comments were one thing, and it didn't seem like any of his collegues had problems making them about his agent, especially when she was wrapped in latex or satin or some glittery little fuck-me dress.   
  
Inappropriate thoughts. Jesus christ, what guy didn't have the occasional impure thought? He was male, after all, and not all pictures that float from your brain do so at your command. You always don't pick the movies that play against your eyelids when you're in the shower. You don't choose what you dream.  
  
And last night's dreams had been a dark tangle of images. Sydney's mother, crawling across a vast, scorched landscape of corpses, cat-like and feral. She stopped, licking the blood from her palms, then plunged her hands through the bodies, into the ground.   
  
When the mother pulled the daughter from the earth, Sydney was screaming, naked, covered in gore like an infant, but fully grown. Mrs. Bristow started at Sydney's toes, licking her skin clean. Then she pulled Sydney to her chest and began to nurse.  
  
Vaughn's father and Jack Bristow watched from these enormous lifeguard chairs, shaking their heads.   
  
Inappropriate feelings? He'd love to hear someone's version of appropriate for this situation.  
  
Vaughn felt her touch his wrist. She must have crawled across the van when he was off in that freudian Hironomous Bosch scene. A faint wave of menthol hit his nose. A strange perfume? No, he decided, it was Ben-Gay.   
  
When he started this job, the sound of the blows through his earpiece would make him wince. It was so intimate, to hear his agent's breathing speed up and slow down. She would gasp in his ear, and he'd hold his breath too, only letting it out when he heard her trembling sigh.   
  
He'd hear the violent thuds and cries of attack and defense. Curses and threats. He now knew what "whore" sounded like in a dozen languages. They always seemed to use that one. The slap of her body hitting the floor or a wall or a fist.   
  
And Sydney would take it all. He'd see a scrape when she passed the intel. It would blossom into a mottled bruise, then fade by their next meeting. Sometimes, a faint limp would twist her. Other times, she would take his briefing with her left hand, her right curled against her side, wrapped in gauze.   
  
Did she ever stop aching?  
  
Sydney sat against the side wall of the van, facing him, and tucked her feet in the space beneath his bent knees. If he straightened his legs out, they'd rest on top of her. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that she was looking right at him.  
  
He could hear the intake of breath two seconds before she said, "Vaughn?"  
  
"Sorry. I'm not a great fan of psychiatrists," he said. When he glanced at her hand, she took it away. "So, why did you call me tonight? What's on your mind?"  
  
"You."  
  
"I'm sorry?" Why did she keep staring at him?   
  
"Don't be."  
  
"I mean, what do you you mean?" Did someone call her? Did someone tell her about the meeting with Barnett? About the confrontation afterwards?  
  
"I wanted to listen, actually. I mean, I'm always going on and on to you, and that's because you're the only one who--."  
  
"You're allowed to talk to."  
  
"I was going to say understands. And with everything, I didn't want to wait for the next official meeting, and we can't even really talk then. And I was thinking about you tonight, and--."  
  
He couldn't help it, he smiled. Without looking at her, he said, "What were you thinking?"  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"About me."  
  
"Um, just, you know, stuff." He turned to see her rubbing her eyes.   
  
It was too dark in the van to see if she was blushing. He liked to imagine that she was. No, that was wrong. He didn't like that he imagined it, but he did. Just for a moment, he pictured it. Then another image crowded in.   
  
"I should probably tell you something."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"You'll probably find out anyway."  
  
"What is it?" she asked, her voice low and a little scratchy. He noticed she was shivering. With great effort, he fought down his first, inappropriate thought. Of course that made room for the second one, the one with the down comforter. Which, in retrospect, was better than the next one, but how was he to know that one would involve her body flushed and slick with sweat. What the hell was wrong with him?  
  
He wasn't one of those guys. He didn't mentally undress all the woman in his life. In fact, he made a real effort not to allow those pictures into his head. But in the hours since he'd nearly taken that jackass down this afternoon, his mind had been a hot, angry soup of thoughts. He started second guessing every interaction he'd had with her, replaying every rendezvous.   
  
They let him leave after the blow up. Luckly, nearly everyone despised that snivling fuck as much as he did, and after he got home, Weiss called to tell him that all the agents in the room at the time had been conveniently occupied. Didn't see a damn thing. As long as the prick didn't press it, Vaughn was fine.   
  
So at dusk he went for a long, punishingly hard run. Stripped to shorts and shoes, and headed into the darkening warren of suburban streets. Listened to the crickets and snicketing lawn sprinklers. Oak lane. River drive. Independence court. A mile after his lungs felt like bursting, the truth crystalized.   
  
He was fond of her. Despite everything around her, around and between them both he was very, very fond of her. Overly so. And just for the hell of it, he also admitted that he wanted her.   
  
He wanted to touch her.   
  
He strongly suspected that Weiss' response to that idea, if he ever voiced it, would be, "Duh." But he'd never voiced it, not even under the influence of four tequila shots last week.   
  
"The force of denial is strong in thish one, Obi Wan," Weiss had said.   
  
Not any more.   
  
When she had opened the van door so suddenly and seen him, he'd felt frozen. Naked. Right then, he'd thought that that was it, she could see everything inside of him. Coolly, she'd examined him, taken in his undone pants, the shape of his body, the long, still painful reminder of his last agent.  
  
Sydney had to know about his session with Barnett. That was why she was here. Her gaze pinned him to the wall.   
  
"What would I probably find out?" she asked, annoyed.   
  
Suck it up, man. Suck it up and deny like hell.  
  
"I saw a shrink today."  
  
"You already told me that."  
  
"About you."  
  
"Right. About our twisted little connection."  
  
"No."   
  
She looked doubtful.   
  
"And yes. Some my collegues think that the level of concern I have for your welfare is--."  
  
"Considering you're responsible for my life a lot of the time, I don't think you can be too concerned." She grinned.   
  
"Inappropriate," he finished.  
  
"Oh." Carefully, she asked, "why would they think that?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"But what brought it on? Do you know?"  
  
"Someone said something."  
  
"What?"  
  
"He's just jealous. It doesn't matter. I'm just bringing this up, so you'll understand if you get questions." He searched her face, but she'd gone stony.   
  
"Thank you."  
  
"You're welcome. I just, I didn't want you to think--."  
  
"Think what?"  
  
"That there was any truth to it."  
  
"To what?"   
  
"What they might say."  
  
"Well, what might they say?" She pulled her hair out of her face, smoothing the tousled, half dried strands into a ponytail.   
  
"You know."  
  
"I really don't," she said, most of her attention on fixing her hair.   
  
Right. "That I'm attached," he said, biting out the words. "That I'm getting attached."  
  
She lowered her hands to her lap. "And there's no truth to that, so there's nothing to worry about."  
  
"Exactly."  
  
She shifted to sit crosslegged. When her knee brushed against his hip, she pulled her knees in and hugged them. "I think that's the last thing they have to worry about. You probably want to get away from me. Knowing what I...I mean, I don't want to be with me half the time. And you, the last thing you're going to want to do is attach."  
  
"Sydney."   
  
"You're right, it's your job to be here, but that's because I told them I wouldn't work with anyone else and if anyone's too attached here, it's me. And now, I'm getting you in trouble?"  
  
A boom of thunder, then another. "I got me in trouble."  
  
"No, I'm--." She stopped and covered her face with her hands. "I'm an idiot. I'm a dangerous, incompetent, unloveable idiot." Her voice grew calmer and quieter with each sentence. "I'm a fraud to every one of my friends, the one man who really...I killed him. God. And my mother. I couldn't even make her...she didn't even really..."  
  
He pulled her cold hands away from her face, then wrapped them with his own. She was shaking.  
  
"I'm not crying. Don't worry, I'm not crying. You don't need--." She laughed, a little hysterically. "I'm sorry. I'm just, and now I'm getting you in trouble? You're the last person who, I'm sorry. I just came here to apologize, and make sure, make sure--."  
  
"Make sure what?" He could see that her eyes were red, and she kept glancing at his mouth, his legs, his hair, his hands. Involuntarily, he licked his lips.  
  
She looked at his mouth again, then he saw her wet her own lips. His thoughts weren't inappropriate. They were actionable.   
  
"You came here to make sure of what?"   
  
She pulled her hands from his and met his gaze. "I came here to make sure of you." 


	3. Actions

He leaned towards her, and watched her tongue dart out again, moistening her mouth. She bit her lower lip and then her face was inches from his. "I'm here," he said.  
  
"We shouldn't be."  
  
"Why?" He braced his hand on the floor, his thumb resting against her hip.   
  
"Because." The length of her thigh trembled against his arm. "Because I'm about to do something idiotic."  
  
"I don't think that anything you do could be--."   
  
She kissed him. A quick, warm brush of her mouth against his, almost friendly. Then her lips parted. Her tongue slid, hot and tentative against his upper lip. His blood rushed, first up to his face, then down. When he opened to her, she moaned into his mouth and cupped his face.   
  
"I need--," she whispered.   
  
"Yes?" The answer was yes. The answer was anything you want. The answer was 'I need the same thing,' regardless of all the reasons they shouldn't.  
  
But then she was getting to her feet.  
  
"That was really stupid. Yeah, I should go now." She tried to step away, but he gripped her tightly around one ankle. "Please, just forget this happened," she begged.  
  
Sydney had kissed him. He was still on that, and then she was up and babbling and, "Get back here," was all he could manage.   
  
"I'm really sorry." She did this ridiculous little dance, trying to shake his hand loose. "Come on, I've embarrassed myself enough for one evening. Just let me go. Stop it. You're going to make me fall down, Vaughn."  
  
"That's the idea."  
  
She stopped, her foot midair. Slowly, she pulled herself from his grasp. Then, she squatted to look him in the eye. "I need you to be honest with me."  
  
"All right."   
  
"No, I really need you to be honest with me."  
  
She clicked off the lamp, and they plunged into darkness. He heard her take a step. "It's easier to be honest in the dark, you know."  
  
His heart beat double time. "Yes."   
  
"You need to tell me," she whispered. He heard her breathing, a little fast and hard. If he'd been able to see her, she'd be on the ground already.   
  
He reached for her, but she stepped away when he caught her foot. "Do you really want to be my handler? If you want out, I won't hold it against you. I really won't."  
  
"I want to be here."  
  
"Because the truth is, you remind me of what she did." Her voice was so even. So gentle. Then it was coming from lower down. "And I know I do the same for you." He heard her sit.  
  
"You do a lot of things for me." He sat back against the wall and tried to swallow the tightness out of his throat. He didn't want his voice to crack. "That is one of them."  
  
He felt her patting his knee, finding him in the dark.  
  
______________________________  
  
Sydney crouched and swept her hand through the darkness. She reached again, and struck something warm. His knee. She sank to the floor and sat facing him, stretching her legs along side his until her feet struck the wall.   
  
The sick part was, she didn't know what she needed. She just knew that he was the only on who could give it to her. She needed proof of something, and she was going to stay here until she got it.   
  
That, and if she was really honest with herself, she wanted to be near him. For the last two days, she'd been in a frozen whirlpool of confusion. Nothing to hold. Nothing to rest her mind against.   
  
Her leg felt warm along the side, where it lay against his. He didn't move away. At some of their meetings, she imagined that others thought they were sleeping together, having some sort of an affair. Their rendezvous always felt illicit, secret, which they were of course. But then she thought that no one could mistake them for lovers. They never touched casually.  
  
She missed that. The right, the ability, the inclination to just lay your hand on someone. Contact, casual and solid, that comes from the ease of your lover's body. Knowing all the curves and lines and textures of his skin.   
  
And she didn't know his skin, yet. No, not 'yet'. 'Yet' implied somthing, and that something was never going to happen. Again, she thought of his scar, of what it would feel like beneath her fingertips. His belly beneath her palms. His lips beneath hers. That she knew already.  
  
Stop. As long as she could keep the emotion out of her voice, she would be fine. Even though her stomach was flipping inside out and climbing up her throat, she didn't feel nauseated. She felt fevered, adrenelized, and tight with need.   
  
"Do a lot of things like what?"  
  
"Hmm?"   
  
"What else do I do for you, Vaughn?"   
  
He said nothing.   
  
"You said--."  
  
"I know," he shifted. "I know what I said."   
  
"Do you want me to go?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Why?"   
  
A long pause, and then, "I just don't. It's good to see you."  
  
"Good to hear me, you mean."   
  
"And smell," he said with a smile in his voice.  
  
"The Icy-Hot. I know, I smell like an old man."  
  
"No, no. I was just, you know, another sense you have to use in the dark."  
  
"Like touch," she said.  
  
The rain had slowed enough that she could hear his breathing. It made her want to move closer. "Touch," he replied. "And taste." Vaughn's voice caught on the last word.  
  
The inside of his mouth had tasted like coffee, felt like a shot of whisky. Her stomach grew warm.  
  
"Propioception," she blurted out.  
  
"Yes. What?"  
  
"The, um, sense of your own body. Where your body parts are in space. Very important when you're trying to kick someone in the head."  
  
"Or dance."  
  
"Or dance," she said. "Do you dance?"  
  
"I don't," he stopped. "Yes actually. Well, I don't but I do."  
  
"Really."  
  
"Well, only at weddings and, my mother made me take ballroom for a few years."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Now you, you dance very well."  
  
She shrugged. "Job requirement. You should have seen those weeks in training. All these guys who signed on for covert ops going, 'one two three, one two three, step together.'"  
  
"Can't compare to 14-year-old geek trapped in a room full of old ladies and giggling teenaged girls."  
  
"Oh you poor thing."  
  
"It was really traumatic."  
  
"You liked it."  
  
"My dad told me it would come in handy with women. I didn't believe him till years later."  
  
"My mother forced me to take ballet. She would always--." Sydney closed her eyes. "I'm sorry. Never mind."  
  
"No, it's ok. Go ahead. I don't mind."  
  
"I do. I just. God damn her. How the, I just, I mean," She drew a deep breath. "Fuck!" she shouted. "How the, how could she be that, and do that and still be a...Mom."  
  
"Are you ok?"   
  
"No. Yes." Had she really just kissed him a minute ago? Or was that a particularly vivid fantasy? "I don't know what I want."  
  
He said nothing. Her eyes were beginning to adjust the dark, and she could barely see his shape. See that he was running his hands through his hair.  
  
"I need to pull together. I need to be a controlled person. I need to be controlled." she said, hugging her body. Again, it was hitting her. She wondered when the numbness would come back. She missed the void inside herself. This thing in her heart, it ached and ached and she wanted to get away from it, from herself, but she couldn't. Just wanted to leave her body and her life and get a new one. She was so very tired.   
  
She realized that she had been rocking, so she stilled her self. She planted her palms firmly on the ground, or tried to. One of them hit his shin. Nice shin. Nice pants. Are those Dockers? She fingered the material at the cuff. Holding the nice, soft pants kept her hand from shaking.   
  
Just a few more minutes, please? Don't say anything, don't do anything, she pleaded with him and whatever god might be left. Just give me a few quiet moments where everything around me is real.   
  
"You're real, aren't you?" she asked, turning her gaze up his body.   
  
He covered his face. Rubbed his eyes. Through his fingers, he said, "Come here." 


	4. Demands

"Why?" The desire to curl up on his lap nearly overwhelmed her.  
  
Her fingertips tickled his ankle, and she realized that in his rush to dress he hadn't bothered with socks. "Do you trust me?" he asked her.  
  
"Do I have a choice?"   
  
He shifted and she froze, uncertain of where he was moving. Then his hand found hers. "Always."  
  
"No. I don't." So warm. So solid and close.  
  
He pulled. "Do you trust me?"   
  
"Should I?"  
  
"Probably." He tugged her towards him again, so she knelt next to him.  
  
"Do you?"  
  
"Trust myself?"  
  
"Ok." The muscles in his leg tensed against her hand.   
  
"Do I trust myself around you?"   
  
She felt him touch her waist, his warm hand finding the place where her sweater had ridden up. One by one, his fingers pressed into her skin.   
  
"No, I don't," he said.  
  
"Well, I trust you," she said, stalling. "I shouldn't maybe, probably not, but I do. And I trust me, so I'm not worried. And we're professionals."  
  
"I'm not on the clock right now."  
  
There's the kind of denial where you aren't even aware, and that kind you don't know about till you're through it and past it. Then there's the level where you don't want to feel it, maybe out of protection. Maybe because you thought that part of your heart had died in a bathtub, cold and red and broken. Safer in numbness.   
  
Then one night at home, after a few glasses of wine, maybe, you crack that shell of denial and you let the desire pour into you. It's all warm and buttery. When you see him next, your need is so thick and rich it coats your tongue. It trips you and suddenly you're 15, all knees and elbows twittering on the inside about whether he just smiled at you.   
  
So now you build a little Lego wall of denial, carefully fitting "he doesn't feel the same way" into "we work together" and tapping that pile onto the all important base of "this could get us killed." All nice and square and primary colors, that wall holds up just fine thank you.   
  
You carry that shield to this meeting, wanting only (liar) to reestablish a professional relationship. Craving (him) only his company, needing a friendly, sympathetic ear (warm, enveloping arms). You came to him wanting only to see (his face) if you were still on the same page.   
  
Then the door opens and he smashes your shield into a thousand tiny red and blue blocks. And before you can pick them out of the weeds and glass you're in a little, damp, dark room, sitting right next to him and you kissed him and he's touching you. And you wrap the threadbare blanket of "we shouldn't" around yourself. But it's a flimsy blanket, and you can feel the heat of his skin through it. And you start to forget why "we shouldn't."  
  
Sydney took a deep breath. "I'm here. What do you want?"  
_____________  
  
Vaughn slid both hands around her waist. "You looked like you needed a hug, that's all." He could feel her ribcage rise and fall, and he knew that if he checked her pulse, it would be beating as quickly as a bird's. For some reason, he was reminded of a cartoon snowball, rolling, bouncing down a hill, picking up size and speed.   
  
"I wouldn't turn one down."  
  
The rain had been tapping a quiet staccato rhythm on the roof, but once again, the tempo increased. The sound of the assault pounded ears, drowning the violent beating of his own heart. "Good to know," he said.  
  
"Are you offering?"  
  
"Probably not the best idea." No, his new best idea involved something other than a hug. A moment ago he'd had the bright idea to give her a friendly, comforting hug. Now he was touching her. Now he had other ideas.  
  
"Why?" She covered his hands, then stroked up the length of his arms. "Why isn't it the very best idea right now?"  
  
"Remember how you did that idiotic thing a few minutes ago?"  
  
She paused, then worked her thumbs into his shoulders, kneading the muscle. "I don't what you're talking about."  
  
Breathe. "That's cool."   
  
"Michael?"  
  
"You never call me that."  
  
"You're right."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
Over and over, she made slow circles on his shoulders, down his upper arms. The rhythm was soothing, intimate, and he could feel the muscles in her waist tense and relax beneath his hands.  
  
"I like the way it sounds from you, Sydney."  
  
"Sydney's a boy's name," she said, cupping his neck and pulling him towards her. She shifted when his face neared to hers, then rubbed the back of his neck with deep, languid strokes.   
  
Michael realized that Sydney had very short fingernails. She could apply press-ons and tips like a pro, but her own hands, blunt. Short. Possibly kept short for business purposes, possibly bitten off in the last few days. He'd seen her do it before.   
  
She had just enough nail to scratch, but only if her fingers were really pressing into a person's skin.  
  
And why did he know this?  
  
Because he was sitting in a dark van with her almost on his lap. She was massaging the back of his neck. She may or may not be having a nervous breakdown. He may or may not kiss her in the few minutes. Life's just funny like that.  
  
"You always use my last name."  
  
"Do you mind?"  
  
"Well, considering--." He had to stop speaking when her fingertips found a particularly tight knot. The back of his head thunked against the wall as his neck went limp. The feel of her hands on his skin, the release of tension in his shoulders, her scent so close again and the low, scratchy sound of her voice, all of it gave him goosebumps. She touched another good spot and he let out an involuntary groan. "Ow. Yes. Right there."   
  
He felt warm air on his cheek and opened his eyes. There was just enough light to see that she was nose to nose with him. For an endless moment, she hovered, examining his face. He'd never seen her this close. He rarely saw anyone but a lover from this distance. She moved slowly, looking at his lips, his cheek, cocking her head to one side and raking her gaze over his jaw and neck.   
  
She traced his jugular, slid two fingers over his adam's apple. When he swallowed, she stroked down, to the notch in his collarbone, to his t-shirt. Her thumb slid beneath the fabric, then all her fingers, stretching out the cotton.   
  
He felt her hand slide further down his shirt, playing with his hair. Then she gripped it and tugged gently, then harder, sending a jolt of arousal to where he was already aching. But he remained perfectly still, clenching his jaw and watching her, waiting.   
  
Very slowly, keeping his palms flat against her waist, he curled his fingers, stroking her skin.   
  
She froze.   
  
He went further, all the way around her back. A shiver coursed through her body. Vaughn searched her eyes, trying to get her to look at him. She wouldn't.  
  
The columns of muscle on either side of her spine stiffened when he began to massage her. For a couple of moments, she relaxed against him, removing her hand from his shirt and resting her face against his shoulder.   
  
Then started to get up.  
  
He had to tighten his grip around her waist. "Where are you going?"  
  
"I'm sorry, I've stepped way over the line."  
  
"What line?" She tried to pull away again, but he held her. He didn't pull her closer, but he refused to let go.   
  
"Michael, let me leave."  
  
"No." No way in hell.   
  
She slid one hand to his throat.   
  
He held on. "Get real. If you wanted to be out that door right now, you would be. We both know that."  
  
"I could have you on the floor in 10 seconds, and we both know that."  
  
He bit his lip and saw her eyes dart down and follow the movement.   
  
"I shouldn't be here, not with you," she said. Sydney stared at his mouth for another few seconds, then back into his eyes. She pushed against him. "I'm not good to be around."  
  
"You don't scare me," he said.   
  
"I should." The shakiness in her voice made his chest ache. "I scare me." She twisted against him again, the friction distracting him into thinking a kiss might be in order, but he heard so much pain in her voice. Too much to consider anything but holding her tight.   
  
Sydney stroked his windpipe with her thumb. "Why won't you let me go? Why aren't you pushing me away? You're supposed to hate me."   
  
"You shouldn't.."  
  
"I shouldn't what?" There was no warning. One second she was struggling half heartedly, the next she was tighening her hand around his neck, sliding the other hand to his chest, and shoving him back into the wall.   
  
For a second she loosened her grip, but then she climbed on top of him, straddling his lap. Her ass rested against his thighs. Her eyes, her voice, her position, it wasn't meant to sexual. It was dominant. It was meant to be frightening. It still turned him on.   
  
"I should not be here. I should not be risking my life for this. I shouldn't be lying and lied to and a lie. I am a lie. I don't deserve this." He felt her thighs squeeze around him for leverage as she leaned all her weight into his sternum, making it hard for him to breathe. Still, he refused to let go of her. Instead, he gently stroked his hand down her spine.  
  
"Stop that. I am a fiction created by the whore who killed your father. I am a god damned prop."  
  
"You're not," he gasped.   
  
"I am this close to losing it," she said, her voice breaking. "Do you understand me? There is only so much one woman can take, and I have taken it and taken it. You all, all of you, you take away everything pure and make it dirty and bloody, and cold and then just leave me."   
  
She took her hand off his neck long enough to wipe at the tears on her cheeks. Then she pressed her wet palm to his throat, more gently this time.   
  
"Do you have some answers for me, Michael? You're always so good with your maps and your tapes and your books and your truth." Her nose brushed his as she growled into his face. "Give me some fucking truth."  
  
__________________________________________  
end part four  
__________________________________________  
  
Thank everyone for all the fantastic feedback so far. It's really making my day, and making me write this faster. Oh, and a shout out to Hillary for her fab beta services.   
  
  
On a slightly different note, I suppose this is as good a place as any to plug two Alias related projects of mine.  
  
http://www.fanfictionreview.com/debriefing   
  
is an archive I'm starting, and   
  
http://www.fanfictionreview.com/directorate  
  
is a banner exchange for Alias sites. 


	5. Touching

Inappropriate (5/?)  
by Kate Andrews  
__________________________________________________________  
  
"I lied," he said, seeing her flinch at his words. "You scare the shit out of me."  
  
She yanked her hand away from his neck as if burned. Arms wrapped around her, one hand on her hip, the other up her back to her shoulder, he tried to keep her from leaving.  
  
"Because," he started. He could barely hold her.   
  
She turned her head sharply away from him. One of her arms was trapped between their chests, her other fist beat his side, against his scar. He just held on, even when she managed to reach up and slap him hard across the face.   
  
"No! I'm going."   
  
"Listen." Violently, she bucked and twisted, a wild thing in his arms. Michael grabbed a fistful of her hair and forced her to look him in the eye. "Listen to me," he shouted. "Because of the way I feel when I am around you. It scares me."   
  
She jerked against his arms again, her eyes shining. She didn't seem to see him, and for a moment, he thought she hadn't heard him, or she didn't care. And that was when he did get scared, because the truth was, she could hurt him if she wanted to. He knew that.   
  
She was breathing so fast he could hear her. He could feel her on his face and against his chest.  
  
Then she focused on him and said, "Tell me how you feel around me."  
  
"Guess."   
  
"Let go of my hair first."   
  
He did. He felt hot from the exertion, a dull burning that slowly disapated from his arms and chest. The heavy heat in his stomach and lower, though, that intensified.  
  
"You're a tough man to read, Vaughn. It's hard to--." Sydney's eyes widened almost imperceptibly, then she glanced down. "Okay, I'm going to take a guess."   
  
Now? She was just noticing now? "That's cheating. That's not guessing."  
  
"You feel like that every time you're around me?"  
  
"Not every time."   
  
She smirked. "That's quite a feeling you've got there."  
  
"Should I take that as a compliment?"   
  
In response, she smiled and made a completely unladylike sniffle-snort. She grabbed the hem of his shirt and lifted, startling him, but she only wiped her face dry.  
  
"You're not going to blow your nose, are you?"   
  
"I think this is the point where I make the joke about a gun in your pocket."  
  
"Hey now."  
  
"Don't feel bad. It's not my fault women are better poker players when it comes to...." her voice trailed off.  
  
"What? When it comes to what, Sydney?"   
  
"This," she said simply.  
  
He let his arms rest lightly around her and for a while they just stared at each other. He still couldn't get over looking her in the eye. So many times they met and spoke and he could only catch glimpses of her face. Now she was just inches from him...hell, she tangled around him. He felt her everywhere, in his stinging cheek, in his sore neck, the wetness on his throat and her warm weight against his almost painful arousal.   
  
"What shouldn't I do?"  
  
"Hmm?" He was having trouble focusing on anything but her scent. There had been times in the past when he'd gotten a whiff of her perfume as she passed him a document or played 'let's pretend to look at the magazines.' But this, this was her. This was the way she smelled. He took another deep breath.  
  
She leaned close and whispered in his ear. Every word brushed her breath and her lips against him. "Before, you said I shouldn't..."  
  
Michael shut his eyes. "You shouldn't be alone right now."  
  
She rested her head on his shoulder and neither of them moved for a while. He felt her chest rise and fall against his, slower and slower and then somehow they were breathing in unison. Sydney's face was hot against the side of his neck. It wasn't until she moved, her skin damp and sliding against his, that he knew she was crying again.   
  
"I'm so glad you called," he whispered, stroking her hair. "I'm so glad you're here with me."   
  
He felt her lips warm against his ear, his cheek, then, finally, for the second time tonight her mouth was on his. Slowly, very delicately, she kissed him. He cradled her head and felt her melt against him, petting his face. Her mouth opened and she laughed, and so did he and her lips never left his.   
  
Her hands trembled against his shoulders, slid down his biceps. Then she rocked against him. Vaughn cupped her rear and pulled her close, slowly, deliberately. He kissed her deeper, flirting with her tongue, tasting her.   
  
He wanted to be tender with her. For right now, at least, he wanted to be so gentle, but she kept squirming, pressing her body against his. He wanted to take his time with the kiss, but the need that rose inside of him wanted more, now. Dimly, he noticed that the rain hadn't stopped yet. How long had they been here?   
  
"It's been a long time," she said, tearing away from him.   
  
He couldn't take his lips off her, so he kissed down her neck, over her shoulder. "Me too." he said as he pulled at the thin straps of her tank top. By the time Alice had left him, they hadn't made love in over a month. And that had been months ago.   
  
"No." She laughed into his hair. He was starting to love that sound, and the way it shook her body. "I've wanted you for a long time," she said shyly.   
  
He tugged harder at her shirt and heard a rip, then more laughter. He felt her lips on him and the kiss grew frantic and wet. Without warning she pulled away, stripped off her top and slid back against him. She held his gaze the entire time.  
  
Nothing had prepared him for this urgent, electric need. He wanted to touch her everywhere at once. Apparently, so did she because his hands kept coliding with hers. Then he felt the room spin and his back was against the carpet. She was on top of him, against him.   
  
He had no idea how she'd managed to flip him so fast. "You're good."  
  
"You're wearing too much."  
  
The shock of her chilly fingers up his shirt made him gasp, then everything went away but her mouth and her moans and his desire to hold her very, very close. For what felt like hours, but couldn't have been more than a few minutes, they kissed each other and groped like teenagers. The floor was gritty and cold and at one point, she accidentally kneed him in the groin.   
  
Still, getting to second base with Sydney Bristow was one of the most intimate, intensely erotic few minutes of his life so far.   
  
When they came up for air, she dropped her head to his shoulder and relaxed on top of him, her body covering his. He asked, "Are you OK?"   
  
"I'm fine," she said into his mouth before rolling away from him, onto her back. He lay on his side , stroking her bare stomach up and down. Down to the top of her pants, feeling her clench and tremble, then up, hearing her breath hiss every time he grazed the underside of her slight curves. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the dim light, he could see the thin, stretchy satin bra that was damp with his kisses.  
  
He pulled one side down and kissed her, feeling the texture of her nipple change beneath his tongue.  
  
She shivered and held him closer, running her fingers through his hair over and over. When she tugged down the other cup and pushed his mouth to that side, he nearly lost it. With each lick and nip and warm, soft mouthful of her flesh he was rewarded with her sighs or moans or hands clutching at his back. He could have explored that patch of skin for hours, but eventually he pulled away.   
  
She was staring at the ceiling. "You do realize we're doomed, don't you?"  
  
"I do not."   
  
Suddenly sat up and faced him, breasts still exposed. He managed to tear his gaze away and make eye contact. When he saw her broad grin, he reached up and tucked her back into her bra, fingers lingering.  
  
"When I got here," she said, "when I saw you I was..." Her voice trailed off as he slid one of her straps down her shoulder. He'd just been kissing her right there.   
  
Vaughn sat up and faced her. "You were?"   
  
"Yeah," she sighed. "Take off your shirt."  
  
He rose onto his knees and pulled it over his head. Her mouth was hot and wet on his skin before he finished stripping. How she'd managed to get her bra off in that time, he had no clue. She urged him towards the back of the van. When his back hit the chilly metal she climbed on top of him, a gentle version of her earlier position.  
  
"You're pretty," she said, circling her fingers through the hair on his chest.  
  
"You're breathtaking."  
  
"This one time at the flower stand," she continued, tracing the contours of his face but not meeting his eyes, "One time the flower lady told me I should ask you out. First she told me it wasn't good to play with married men, and I assured her we weren't playing."  
  
He kissed her collarbone.  
  
"She told me she'd seen us there before."  
  
Her neck vibrated against his mouth as she spoke.  
  
"She said you watch me when I walk away."  
  
"I watch you whenever I can."  
  
"I'm going to ask you where you got this," she said, stroking down his belly to his navel. She traced his scar all the way around his back. "Not now, though."  
  
"Later."  
  
"Does it hurt?"  
  
"Some times." He touched the purple and brown, fist-sized bruise that spread across her ribs. "Cairo?"  
  
"Budapest."  
  
"I'm sorry about before."  
  
"I can handle you."  
  
"I was about to bite you, to make you let me go. Could you have handled that?" She smiled, and scooted closer. "I'll take that as a yes."  
  
"This isn't fair."  
  
She threaded her fingers through his, put his palm flat against her stomach, slid his hand inside her waistband and let go. "Happy?"  
  
Belly. Hair. He hesitated, then she leaned into him. Wow. Oh, wow. "Yes."   
  
She rose up onto her knees  
  
"Please don't go."  
  
"You gonna hold me down again?" she teased.  
  
An image flashed in his mind, so vivid it felt like a memory. In it, he was collapsing on top of her, panting, bonelessly giving her the full weight of his body, skin to skin, her fingers sliding over his sweaty back, her legs wrapped tight around him, holding him down.  
  
"No," he said, "But I want you to stay." He stroked her gently with one finger, feeling her arch into his touch. With his other hand he reached up and traced her lips.  
  
"This is going to make things harder," she said, her tongue grazing his fingertip.  
  
"How could things get any harder?"   
  
"And how many times have I told myself that?"  
  
Good point. And she was right. "If you want to go," he said, withdrawing his hand, "you should go." He took both hands off her and placed his palms flat against the cold floor. As long as her wasn't touching her, everything would be ok.   
  
"Is that what you want me to do?"  
  
He paused. "If I told you what I wanted you to do, you'd probably smack me."  
  
"Been there, done that. And sorry, by the way." She cupped his face and kissed him very softly on the cheek.   
  
"I can handle you."   
  
"I want you to handle me." The way she said that sliced through him, a shock of arousal that stung.  
  
"Sydney."   
  
"Michael," she said, gripping his shoulders and leaning back, bringing her into intimate contact with him.   
  
"This is dangerous."  
  
"No, it's not." And then she rubbed against him again, arching her back in a way that silenced him. In a way that made it necessary to pull her in for another deep, slow kiss.   
  
"Yes, it is," he said, regaining his focus.   
  
"I'm on the pill." She kissed her way down his neck and he could feel her hands beneath his shirt.  
  
"If anyone even suspects..what? You're what? No, that's not--." Deep breath.  
  
"You're all flustery."  
  
"I am not."  
  
"I bet you're blushing." She climbed off of him.  
  
"I am not blushing." He winced when she clicked on the light.   
  
"You are! It's so cute." The van filled with her laughter.  
  
"C'mon." He rubbed his eyes. "Turn it off."  
  
Suddenly, she fell silent. He looked up to find her staring at him, hands folded in her lap, the florescent lantern throwing harsh shadows across her face and bare chest. She shook her head.  
  
"Why do you want the light on?"  
  
"I want to be able to see you when, when we," she looked down. When she spoke again, he could barely hear her. "You don't want to?"  
  
______________________________________-  
  
  
That, ladies and gentlemen, ends part 5. I forsee ending this on part 6, unless this new, evil idea that I had actually works, in which case there might be a 7. Depends. Big shout out again to Hillary, for all her patience with my bullshit, especially when truth is stranger than fic. You're definitely helping my sanity at the moment.   
  
This part remains R, because if it were filmed, it wouldn't earn an NC-17. For the next section, though, that might not be the case. As always, reviews and feedback are greatly appreciated. 


End file.
